


Utter fabrication

by anamia



Series: Animates 'verse [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Battle Pillows, Gen, impolite sleeves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You wish to interrogate my sleeves?” Musichetta asked.</p><p>In which Bahorel sets out to unravel a mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Utter fabrication

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently having a million things due is precisely what it takes to get me writing again. I have such wonderful priorities.

“All I meant to say,” Bahorel said as a large and probably quite valuable china plate hurtled into the wall by his head, “was that the ratio of sleeve to waist in fashionable gowns these days has become quite absurd and that a gentleman could be excused for being bewildered by such sartorial conventions.” The plate was followed by volley of tiny needles, all of which missed Bahorel’s person by a few centimeters; she wasn’t trying.

“I was not aware we were discussing gentlemen,” the source of the projectiles retorted, eyebrow arched sardonically. She sat primly in Bahorel’s best chair, a rather ridiculous creation of loud velvet and frothy wood that seemed as though it should not be able to bear her weight, much less Bahorel’s. From this throne she directed the army of housewares with the skill of a general, ungloved hands moving through the air with the authority and eloquence of one well trained in performing in front of noisy and boisterous audiences. “In fact, I was not aware that you knew any, much less any with whom you were on familiar enough terms to discuss the intricacies of my wardrobe. Your own, certainly – you would declaim about your wardrobe to a pigeon…”

“Only if there were no available swans,” Bahorel interrupted, a comment which earned him a spoon to the knee.

“Ah, yes, how foolish of me,” Dianne said. “You would of course prefer the foul-tempered and vain avian to any other. No doubt you feel a certain kinship with them.”

“My neck is really quite long,” Bahorel agreed with a wicked grin.

“Not so long as you might wish,” Dianne said dryly. The chair upon which she sat creaked slightly in agreement.

“Silence, cur,” Bahorel told it, leveling a censorious glare in its direction. “Your jealousy is no reason to besmirch my good name.”

“He can do that without help,” Dianne agreed, patting the chair’s arm sympathetically. To Bahorel she added, “A man who bedecks himself in crimson and leather has no leg upon which to stand when it comes to commenting on the choices of others. Nor does it become you to speak without first thinking.”

Bahorel answered with a laugh. “Why, my good lady, when have I ever been known to do anything else?” he wanted to know. “I am _legendary_ for speaking without thinking. Indeed, my comrades despair of me for it and every inspector I meet wonders aloud how I am not yet rotting in jail! To speak without thinking is more than my habit, it is my _calling_. Would you deny a man access to his true nature so cruelly? Would you ask a cock never to crow, or a cricket to gather food in summer? Are you so heartless as to deny freedom to an adventuresome ass? No, you are not so harsh as that, surely.”

“You failed to stipulate that I should permit you to be eaten by wolves when we drew up our contract,” Dianne said. “Ergo I am perfectly within my rights to chain you up if I wish.”

“Do you so wish?” Bahorel asked, waggling his eyebrows shamelessly.

“And reward you for bad behavior? Certainly not.” Dianne reached out and absently caught a young fork as it attempted to launch itself into the carpet. “Tines first,” she told it. “You’ll do more damage.” She released it and watched as it repositioned itself, nodding approvingly. “You’ve been teaching them bad habits,” she accused Bahorel.

“Certainly I have not!” Bahorel returned. He nudged the spoon by his feet, urging it to avenge his honor. Alas the cutlery to a one preferred Dianne to him and the spoon only rolled over in clear disregard for his authority. Bahorel kicked it away. “Never have I experienced such flagrant disrespect in my own home,” he declared. “It is a disgrace!”

“You were driven out by the pillows just last week,” Dianne said.

“I retreated with dignity,” Bahorel informed her.

“Of course you did,” Dianne agreed. Then, returning to their original subject of conversation, she added, “A tactical retreat which would have been unnecessary if you had more respect for my sleeves, I will add.”

“Pray elaborate,” Bahorel said.

Dianne rose, dislodging the small family of spoons nesting in her lap. They tumbled down her skirts, landing on their handles and moving out of her way. The smallest of the group, designed for the eating of eggs and not yet accustomed to heights, missed its landing and turned angrily upon its laughing comrades.

“I don’t think I will,” Dianne said, pitching her voice above the sudden clink of silver on silver as the spoons began to spar. “It would do you good to stew in uncertainty for once.” She picked up her fan, snapping it open just in time to deflect one of the more loyal trinkets making its way through the air towards her. “And watching you figure it out on your own will be most amusing, I expect.” With that she picked her way out of Bahorel’s rooms, pausing as the young fork hurried over to display its newly bent tines, proof that it had taken her advice to heart. She offered it an encouraging smile and swept out the door.

*

“Say, Joly, your Musichetta is a young woman of fashionable sensibilities, is she not?”

Joly turned to find Bahorel lounging against the wall behind him, his expression so innocent that Joly became immediately wary. “She is,” he agreed. “Why do you ask?”

“I find myself with a pressing question that can only be answered by a fashionable young lady,” Bahorel said. When Joly frowned at him Bahorel hastened to add, “Nothing lewd, that I assure you. A matter of utmost propriety, so chaste that even Enjolras might sit in without blushing, were he so inclined.”

“You intend to ask her about the republic?” Joly asked, momentarily diverted from his wariness by the image of Enjolras and Musichetta in conversation. He could not maintain the image for more than a few seconds without breaking into laughter, picturing his mistress’ reaction to Enjolras’ eccentricities and, more amusing still, Enjolras’ bewilderment when confronted with Musichetta’s tendency towards giggling.

Bahorel joined him in laughter, though whether he did so because he had correctly predicted Joly’s train of thought or in response to Joly’s question it was impossible to tell. “If she is willing to speak on it, I would be delighted,” Bahorel said when he recovered his breath. “Though I am not so boorish as to allow only the well dressed into our future. No, I require her assistance concerning a matter of ladies’ dress.”

“I don’t think any of Musichetta’s things would fit you,” Bossuet remarked, returning with a bottle of wine for himself and Joly. “It’s the shoulders, you understand. Our songbird’s shoulders are quite fetching but not quite on the same scale as yours.”

“Are my shoulders not fetching?” Bahorel wanted to know.

“Enormously so,” Bossuet assured him, offering him the bottle. He took a seat next to Joly, adroitly managing to avoid the still wet patch before him where Joly had spilled their previous bottle of wine. “Why do you require her clothing?”

“I don’t,” Bahorel said, passing the bottle back to Joly. “I require her knowledge.” He crossed his arms, looking thoughtful. “Though if that proves unhelpful I may need to interrogate her clothing without her.”

Joly and Bossuet exchanged looks. “Are you certain?” Bossuet asked. “Dresses have been known to weave quite the tall tale.”

“Stories made from whole cloth,” Joly agreed.

“One might even say tailor made to the occasion.”

“Utter fabrications.”

“Have you quite finished?” Bahorel interjected, as both Joly and Bossuet collapsed into laughter.

“Certainly not,” Bossuet said between giggles. “We are quite undercooked, both of us.”

“But well marinated,” Bahorel said, reaching out to take another swallow from the bottle. “Perhaps we shouldn’t let you anywhere near the fire after all.”

“And consign us to drinking our wine chilled like English savages? Oh, you are a wicked man Monsieur Bahorel.”

“You are not the first to say so, Monsieur L’Aigle,” Bahorel assured him. “Might I call upon your mistress at her earliest convenience?”

“If she’ll have you,” Joly said, giggling a little at his friends’ descent into formality. “Far be it from us to dictate her schedule; the last time I tried to impose my will upon her life she threw a shoe at my head.” He smiled fondly at the memory; Musichetta never stayed angry for long once he had made his apologies, and passion made her eyes sparkle bewitchingly.

“Quite right,” Bahorel said. “A word of advice, my friend: do not push her to the point where she stops missing.” With that he sketched a bow and took his leave.

Joly and Bossuet looked at each other in the wake of his departure. Finally Joly said, “Five to one, in Champagne or Chambertin, that she throws him out.”

Bossuet wrinkled his nose. “Buonaparte’s wine? No thank you.” He grinned. “I suspect five minutes.”

Joly returned the grin. “Would that we could be embroidery on her shoulders to watch.”

“You would make a most delightful decoration,” Bossuet said. “The prettiest of all her fripperies. I, meanwhile, am only suited to be a dog at her feet. You are fond of dogs, are you not Jolllly?”

“I am fonder of eagles,” Joly replied and grinned happily as Bossuet laughed.

*

“You wish to interrogate my sleeves?” Musichetta tilted her head slightly, examining the man in front of her. Joly had warned her that a friend of his might be paying a call, sounding half-strangled with laughter as he did so. She did not have the heart to tell him that she had been forewarned by his very friend’s mistress the day before, during a particularly productive gossiping session. Now her hand closed around a very small spoon in her pocket, checking to make certain that it was paying attention. Dianne would forgive neither her nor the utensil if it did not return with a full report.

“I do,” Bahorel said with a bow. “Though, naturally, I understand if you would prefer to serve as a chaperon for the duration.”

“Unless you expect me to entertain you _en deshabiller_ , I do not see how I can avoid playing the role,” Musichetta said. She considered the man before her. Though this was their first meeting she knew quite a bit about him, both from Joly and from Dianne. This last, gifted with an uncanny talent for mimicry, had once performed both sides of a debate with him for Musichetta and her friends. Now that Musichetta had met the man in person, she made a note to congratulate Dianne on her impression. “Dare I inquire what you hope to learn from my sleeves?”

“I have reason to suspect that they have been keeping secrets,” Bahorel said. “And perhaps collaborating with other fabrics.”

Musichetta covered a giggle with one hand. “I see. Well, that does sound serious. Perhaps you had better come in and sit down.”

She stepped away from the door and let him in, gesturing for him to take a seat. She sat across from him, crossing her legs demurely at the ankles and folding her hands in her lap, sleeves prominently displayed. They had lace on them.

“The sleeves of Mademoiselle Musichetta,” Bahorel said severely. “I have come to speak to you concerning a matter of great importance. Might I have your attention.”

Musichetta’s sleeves puffed up a little in response to this demand. She shifted her elbows further away from her body to accommodate them.

“What associations have you with other clothbound creatures, particular rogue pillows?” Bahorel wanted to know.

The left sleeve deflated then regained its form twice in rapid succession; though Musichetta could not communicate with her clothing like Dianne could she gathered that the sleeve was displeased by the question.

“Pray do not take that tone with me,” Bahorel said, clearly having understood more than just the tone of the sleeve’s response. “There is a _lady_ present.”

It was the right sleeve which responded this time, twisting slightly clockwise. The fabric rustled softly.

“If you’re going to be like that I shan’t be polite,” Bahorel told it. “I thought I asked quite respectfully, given that you are rumored to have some form of alliance with my bedding without my knowledge.”

Both sleeves puffed up again. Musichetta rather thought they were laughing at him. In her pocket the spoon vibrated a little.

Bahorel propped his hands on his hips. “You are fortunate that Mademoiselle Musichetta is wearing you or I would be forced to get quite severe. Have you or have you not an association with the pillows such that they might be encouraged to show reason were I to make my peace with you and your kind?”

The lace on the left sleeve strained slightly at its stitching. Watching it, Musichetta hoped that it wouldn’t be so adamant as to tear the seam entirely; she was fond of these particular sleeves.

“Is that so?” Bahorel asked.

The right sleeve rustled its agreement.

“Well, I am glad we could clear that up,” Bahorel said. He rose. “Thank you for your time Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle’s sleeves.”

“You’re welcome,” Musichetta said, also rising. “I hope you found the answers you were seeking.”

“I did,” Bahorel said with a bow. He opened the door. “Though you might wish to tell Joly that he is not nearly so good at spying as he thinks he is.”

Musichetta’s raised eyebrow of inquiry was answered by an all too familiar giggle from the next room. She concealed a sigh as Bahorel smirked.

*

Later, after Musichetta had confronted Joly about his spying and received a very lovely apology indeed, she made her way to Dianne’s home and knocked. It took a moment for the door to open, and when Dianne peered out Musichetta could tell that she had interrupted her in mid-preparation for an evening’s performance.

“I came to return your spoon,” Musichetta said, offering the object to her.

Dianne’s grin lit up her face. “Wonderful!” she said. “Thank you. Was he polite?”

“To me? Impeccably. To my clothing not so much.”

Dianne raised her eyebrows. “Is that so?” she asked. “And here I thought he’d have learned his lesson when I told him off for it.”

“What was he trying to find out?” Musichetta wanted to know. “It was all rather cryptic.”

Dianne laughed. “A link that only half existed,” she said.

“So there was no conspiracy?” Musichetta asked.

“Oh, there is certainly a conspiracy,” Dianne assured her. “But neither your sleeves nor mine masterminded it.”

Musichetta raised her eyebrows. “Who did then?” she asked, already guessing the answer.

Sure enough, with a wicked smile that would not have looked out of place on her lover, Dianne said, “Me.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _La chevre de M. Seguin,_ which is vaguely alluded to here, was actually published in the 1860s, but this is a story about sentient sleeves so I don't feel too bad taking historical liberties.


End file.
